The Hidden Kingdom
by yeeks
Summary: A story I wrote a long while ago exploring Sean Lord Derry's mysterious past. It's a bit of an embarrassing piece of fantasy romance, complete with bad dialect (I was young!) but I thought I'd put the first few chapters out there; I'll post the rest if there's any interest.
1. Chapter 1

**The Hidden Kingdom**

**Chapter 1**

_The secret things belong to the LORD our God - Deuteronomy 29:29_

It was a beautiful morning, the day when the news came. The air was crisp and cool in Rhemuth, and the wind swept strong through the city, filling it with the scent of wood fires and hot spiced wine. Alaric Morgan and Father Duncan Maclain rode into the stableyard that morning in fine high spirits, their faces pink with the cold. "Eighteen, at most," Morgan said as he swung down from the saddle. He brushed down his black brocade doublet, which looked dusty and weatherbeaten. "Not a day older."

"She certainly looked young," his cousin observed mildly, "but experienced. Very experienced." Duncan removed his boots and sat on the water trough while his horse drank thirstily. He stretched down, reaching gloved hands towards his feet, and felt his back creak. God, I am getting old, he thought.

Sean Lord Derry, Morgan's lieutenant, had come out from the stable carrying blankets for the horses and a flask for the riders. Grinning, he handed the wine to Morgan. "I don't even want to know what kind of girl gets discussed like this by a married man and a priest." He paused for a beat. "Never mind, I do want to know." He lifted an eyebrow, surveying Morgan's stallion. "How far have you ridden, m'lord?"

Morgan recognized the look and hastened to reassure him, "Not too far," he said, "we had a bit of a gallop on the way back, so they're a little winded. They'll be fine."

Derry's brows contracted, and Duncan quickly changed the subject. "And the young lady," he said, leaning back against a post, "was experienced in protecting her virtue. And in the use of a blade."

"And language," Morgan added, "I didn't know all the words she used."

This was interesting enough to take Derry's mind off the careless handling of horses. "She attacked you? What did you do?" Morgan made a gesture of wounded innocence. "Us!? What do you take us for?" He took off the saddle and began to brush his horse down in a mollifying manner. "We were just passing through."

"We were supposed to meet Dhugal at Lord Ralston's stables," Duncan explained, "He's buying one of his yearlings and wanted to show it to me. We were a little late, though. When Dhugal saw someone asleep in the loft he thought I was napping in the middle of the day. He disapproves of such indulgences – he says it's a sign of old age – and he decided to wake me a little exuberantly."

"Jumped on her and tried to pull her down, actually," Morgan chuckled, "She took it the wrong way."

Derry covered his eyes with one hand. "He confused you with a women?" he asked. With an impatient gesture he shooed his lord out of the way and started grooming the horse himself. "He must have been drinking in the middle of the day."

"The indulgence of the young," Duncan agreed gravely, "But apparently not. She was wearing riding clothes, and her cape looked a lot like mine. Hair much the same color, too. Apparently she was curled away from him. And who knows if he was really fooled? Dhugal wouldn't have qualms about grappling a girl in the hay.

"Anyway, when they disentangled, she went for him with a dagger and a short sword. He's lucky he has quick reflexes, and even luckier we arrived on the scene. She wasn't bad, for a woman, and he was too flustered to defend himself properly."

Both Morgan and Derry were almost doubled over. "You should have seen it," Morgan wheezed, "She was swearing a blue streak when we pulled her off, half in a language I've never heard, and he was just stammering, 'Miss… milady…I….I mean…I thought…forgive me…" Morgan's voice took on a high tenor of panic. Derry wiped tears from his eyes.

"Good lord," he managed finally, "I had no idea the Ralston daughters had that much spunk. They've always been shy as new-born fillies to me."

"As would any good girl who knew your reputation," Morgan shook a finger at him. "But this wasn't one of the family. I've never seen her before. She broke free – nearly took off my fingers with her dagger – jumped on a horse and took off. Dhugal was still trying to apologize, so he took Festrier and galloped after her. God knows what he'll do if he ever catches up. We chased them a while after we stopped laughing, but they had too much of a start and we lost them after a while."

"I would have liked to find out who she was," Duncan said dreamily, "She was a striking-looking girl. Not pretty, exactly. Pale as a ghost, freckled as an apple and the darkest eyes I've ever seen. I'd guess she was gentle-born, as well, for all her clothes and manners. She held herself very well."

"You may not want to meet her kinsfolk," Morgan warned him. "I couldn't place the accent, but the language was some kind of border dialect. And the one thing I did understand was her promise that her brother would carve your son up and serve him for dinner. Savage thing. And like I say, maybe eighteen years old."

"Twenty-three." Both men stopped reminiscing and looked up in surprise. Derry's expression had turned grim; his jaw was clenched and his fist held the horse's mane in a death grip. "She's always looked young. Little idiot!" he murmured. Then, feeling their astonished gazes, he swore and walked into the stable without a word of explanation. A few minutes later the marcher lord emerged on the back of a doughty piebald stallion, his favorite horse, who he insisted could outrun any thoroughbred at court. "Don't worry, Father" he called to Duncan, spurring the animal towards the gate, "I'll try not to kill him. But you might want to pray I find my sister before he does."

Shannon O'Flynn dropped a low curtsy, keeping her face down in a futile effort to hide her blush. She felt as if the whole court was laughing at her, and she was not too far wrong. Certainly the queen was having a hard time controlling her smile. "You are welcome to Rhemuth, Lady Shannon," Araxie said warmly,

"Your mother wrote to say that you were coming, but we were not expecting you for another week at least."

Her new lady-in-waiting turned, if possible, even redder. She had been lent a simple white gown, whose slender sleeves reached almost to her fingertips, and her flaxen blond hair was tied back under a white lace cap. Her cheeks seemed to glow all the more scarlet, being the only trace of color on her. "I'm very sorry, sure, m'lady," she murmured, twisting her fingers. Unlike her brother, Shannon had spent little time outside the March, though she had been tutored at home, and her accent was light and charming. "I had no thought to arrive so soon." In fact, she had not expected to be caught so soon, and she had a horrible suspicion that everyone in the room knew it. She had left her much slower escort at an inn outside Caerlin. The note she had left told them to meet her in a week's time in Rhemuth. Aelwyn was a good man, and she had had little doubt that his company would find her before then. But she had counted on him being too proud to admit to Sean or their mother that he had lost her. At worst she would have had a few days of freedom and a stern talking to, before being handed over to court life.

Unfortunately, that was not how things turned out. Her brother's anger had been silent and frightening, though it was hard to tell how much of it was directed against her and how much against the young duke. He had found them sitting in a little woodshed, negotiating a wary conversation, and he had all but dragged her out by the hair. Her good clothes were still with Aelwyn. Worst of all, somehow the whole city seemed to have learned that she had arrived, and how, and she had no choice but to be presented that evening. King Kelson was in high good spirits as he extended a hand to lift her. "Who can complain when a blessing is given early?" He said gallantly, as he escorted her up the steps to a low chair beside his wife's. "You are welcome, my lady. And thank you for taking it easy on my cousin. He is clumsy with ladies, but he would have been much missed."

There was a ripple of laughter in the hall, and for that instant Shannon hated the young king as much as she had hated anyone her life long. "Then I am glad he escaped, sire, for your sake," she said sweetly, taking her seat, "but I did no spare him. I would have killed him if I could."  
Kelson blinked at her, nonplussed, but recovered quickly, "I believe you, lady," he said, casting an amused look at Dhugal, who was looking very uncomfortable in one corner of the room, "and I'll mind my manners in the future. I hope there will be no need for you to fight for your honor again."

"Nay, sire, sure. I'll have me brother for that."

Araxie was following this exchange with less approval than did her husband, but she laughed outright at that. "There's something like poetic justice, Lord Derry," she said, looking over at him, "in the thought of you as the protector of a young woman."

Derry was hovering at the foot of the dais, seemingly torn between concern and pride. He had changed from his groom's attire to more suitable raiment, and in his bright blue cloak and doublet looked far more like a nobleman than he had. He was also in better humor, having finally accepted Dhugal's countless explanations. "I haven't much choice in the matter, Your Majesty," he said, apologetically, "I fear no sword in the kingdom as I fear my mother."

"God save us," drawled the queen, "I had no idea Marcher women were so formidable. Tell me, lady Shannon, how fares the Purple March in these days? My late husband, rest his soul, spoke very highly of the country." "Well, I thank you, Your Ma-"

But Shannon had no chance to finish the thought. At that moment a rider burst in the hall, wet through. "Your Majesty!" he cried, as all faces turned to him, "I bear bad news."

"Both of them?" Kelson murmured, half to himself. He turned back to the messenger, who was sitting on a low stool cradling a large flagon of warm wine. After the initial announcement, Kelson had dismissed the court and convened an immediate war council. Fifteen men sat around the great table, some still looking numb with shock. "Are you sure they're moving together?"

"Aye, majesty," the man replied, wearily, "No doubt about it. They're camped separate, but there's a constant exchange of riders and men between them."

"What's the breakdown between the forces?"

He thought a moment. "Hard to say, exactly. Of the maybe twelve thousand swords, eight are in the Tolan camp, but the Tarlians seem to expect more men to arrive. Fully a third of them are on horseback."

"When would you guess they mean to march?"

"Soon," Morgan rested his eyes against his palms, "they'd be fools not to. A force smaller than that could take Mewyth easily, and from there they could entrench or continue as they will." The messenger, a Mewyth man from his livery, nodded agreement. "I'd judge they could move within the week, at the rate their supply lines are forming."

"Uncle," Kelson said, "how long would it take an army that size to reach Mewyth?"

Nigel Haldane shook his head, "It depends on how stiff the resistance from the provinces. But they're vastly outnumbered and may think it more prudent to withdraw to the city. From where the enemy is, he could arrive in full strength, oh, three days later if he pushed. Mewyth could hold out at best a week, probably less. If they don't have assurance that we will make it on time they would be wiser to open the gates and forego a siege."

"It's a four day march from here. Then we have to be ready to move in ten days or less, and be ready to lay a siege or meet a standing army in the field. I don't know if that's possible."

"We could send out riders to Kirkelain and Ber, have them send men to reinforce Mewyth. Most of the counties could have some men here in eight days; the farther borderlands will just have to catch up. But even if everyone makes it, I don't think we'll have up to ten thousand."  
Bishop Arilan had been pondering apart, his hands clasped in front of his face. "I wonder," he mused, "what Ratzin has offered the Tarlians. It would have to be substantial to make them put aside their old enmity and band against us. Tarlia has no quarrel with Gwynedd." Ratzin of Tolan, on the other hand, still claimed the Haldane throne, though his cousin Clarissa, the most recent pretender in his line, had been soundly defeated in the first year of Kelson's reign.

"Do you know their arcane strength?" Kelson sent his thought through to the Deryni priest, as not everyone in the room knew of his powers.

"Tolan is fairly powerful, as they've had a line of Deryni rulers. I don't know about Tarlia. But it's safe to assume we have a hard fight on that front, as well."

Kelson sighed. "That's enough for now," he said to the messenger, "go take your rest. You have our sincere thanks. I know you must have risked much to bring us this warning."

The man's expression darkened, "Nay, sire. It's odd. They were taking no trouble to hide themselves, and no one hindered me, though I'm sure I was spotted. It's as if they want us to know they're there."

After he left, Duncan spoke for the first time, "That is worrying. They must have assembled separately with some stealth. Why bother mustering at Balbery at all? If they had agreed to converge on Melwyth, we would have barely heard of it before the city fell. If they're trying to give fair warning, why not send an ambassador with a declaration of war?"

"That might still be forthcoming," said Arilan, "but I doubt it. Ratzin is not overburdened with that kind of scruple." "The whole thing smells of a diversion," Kelson said. He could feel the tension building up in his shoulders. "But a diversion twelve thousand strong and growing cannot be lightly ignored. My lords, we have work to do. Send riders to all the noble houses as fast as possible; get their full numbers, no exceptions. They're to meet at Rhemuth or on the road to Mewyth, whichever is fastest. Nigel, I want the eastlands crawling with spies, in case there's another attack or a different target. No one rests until we're ready."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field -Matthew 13:44_

There's a kind of release in extreme stress. A person has so much to do that he cannot think, much less worry, about anything. A surprise attack can feel much the same way. For the first few days the court at Rhemuth was too occupied to even feel anger. Watching the men scurry to and fro, Shannon reflected that preparing for battle wasn't much different from throwing a wedding or any large celebration. Mostly it seemed to involve food and invitations.

For herself, she had to remember from time to time that war was a terrible thing, and that she should not be enjoying herself. But she had been so dreading court life - the confinement, the manners, the pointless intrigues - that she could not help delighting a little in the turn of events. The women were just as busy as the men. Many immediately made preparation to return to their own strongholds, since Rhemuth was certainly the invader's ultimate destination. Others occupied themselves alternatively in packing and in prayer for their sons and husbands. Altogether no one had time to take the newcomer under her wing, for which she was profoundly grateful. No one had time to notice her, hardly. The queen was beside herself with worry for her new husband. She spent most of her day in the chapel, leaving her lady in waiting free to observe the controlled chaos that erupted around her.

She avoided Sean as much as possible. He had forgotten completely about hayloft incident, so anxious was he to send her home. It infuriated him that, after refusing to come for so long, she now refused to leave. "I'm not going to argue about it," he told her the first night, as he dug through his trunk for maps and reports. "There's no point you leaving before Aelwyn arrives. But the moment he does, you go." She recognized his tone and didn't push the matter, just dropped a stiff curtsy and left the room.

She did resolve, however, to make the most of the time she had left. Dressed in simple linen dresses – the only kind she had - she found she could slip quietly through the corridors virtually unseen, overlooked as a serving girl. The only attention she drew was from some of the soldiers, whose lewd comments she ignored, and from Dhugal Maclain.

It wasn't that he sought her out; quite the opposite. When they met by chance he always seemed surprised and discomfited. He would try to hide it with elaborate casualness, and after a few minutes would cast about for an excuse to bolt. Even in a large crowd he was obviously aware of her presence. He wasn't helped by Shannon's frank interest, and amusement, in his reaction to her. She would stare at him openly in company, smiling a little if he stammered or flushed.

She didn't mean to be cruel. Shannon had never been considered pretty, and her society had been limited. Every man she knew had known her since she was born. She assumed that the young border lord was afraid of her brother, and didn't look for any further explanation. Whatever its source, she had never had this much power over anyone. She could not resist playing with it.

One afternoon she came across him in a small yard, practicing the sword. She watched him for a while from the shadows of the arched walkway. The day was overcast and cold, cold for Rhemuth at least. In only a thin knit shawl, the Marcher woman barely felt it. The columns around her were overgrown with honeysuckle, which, though flowerless, still filled her heart with scent. He was wearing rough brown britches and a white shirt, despite the weather damp with sweat. His exercises were not interesting without an opponent, mostly basic technique and strength building. A series of steps, sweep and thrust. Downward chop, over and over again, until Shannon's upper arms almost ached in sympathy. More footwork.

Finally his training took him across the space where he could see his audience, though she was half-concealed by the greenery. He stopped his sword mid-swing, considered a moment, then buried its tip in the ground. "My lady," he said, leaning on the hilt, "You know very well I can't continue with you watching."

She shrugged a little, disconcerted. "I can no see that it's much help, practicing just before a fight. Either you're ready or you're not."

"I do this every day," he said, without grudge or boast. He bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing deeply. Then he looked up, a half grin on his face. "Want another chance at me?" Shannon was charmed, despite herself. Evidently he was too tired to be nervous.

"No," she said, and gave a kind of wry grimace. "To be truthful, I do no think I can beat you. Don't laugh," she folded her arms, pretending annoyance, "Me brother could still whip you fair to Balbery and back again."

Dhugal laughed all the same. "We'll have to try it some time. Give me the word," he straightened and stretched, letting his eyes linger on her, "and I'll give him a reason."

Now it was her turn to blush, and only with an effort did she not stammer. "My lady will be wanting me," she murmured, wishing desperately she could think of any other excuse. Unable to face his triumphant smile, she turned and fled.

She reached the east wing courtyard before she caught it, the buzz of talk that was slowly filling the passageways. At first she had brushed by the courtiers, unheeding, but gradually she understood what was being said. Apparently Aelwyn had come at last.

She knew something was wrong before she saw him. The rumors were unspecific but ominous, and she paused a full ten seconds outside the door. When she worked up courage to step inside, however, all fear for herself vanished. "Aelwyn!" she cried, rushing past the gathering crowd. "What … what ha' tha, man? What happened?" She dropped to her knees by his side. He was sitting in a low chair, slumped to one side. A gash ran across his forehead, the ugly black of a fresh scar. His arm hung in a sling, and he was filthy. He looked up at her as if from a great distance, and smiled weakly. "Shannon," he said, his voice low and strained, "thank God." He placed his good hand over hers.

"Uncle," she said, her eyes brimming over. "I'm so sorry. I should no have…"

"No, love. The Almighty guided you, sure as daylight." He coughed, and closed his eyes. "Where's the king?"

She stood and cast around her, frantic. Then she saw Kelson approaching, quickly, followed by Morgan and Derry. "Don't worry, _taid_," she whispered, pressing his arm. "He's coming."

Careless of protocol, Derry pushed past his lord and his king and ran to the chair. He looked suddenly ten years older. "Aelwyn _taid_," he said, kneeling, "what…."

"_Gwrando ar 'm_," Aelwyn wheezed. He reached out, clasped Derry by the neck and shoulder, and pulled him in with savage urgency. "_ddeuan, ddeuan _…" He was still talking as Kelson came up to them, muttering hoarsely into the younger man's ear. Finally he looked up, and he half raised his wounded arm as if to salute the king. Then he seemed to relax into the chair.

Shannon gave a hiccoughy sob. "No," whispered Derry, clasping the gnarled hand still cupped, limply now, around his face. "My lord..?"

Morgan was already moving. He had opened the stained vest, and drew a sharp breath at what he saw. The abdomen was mangled, and so encrusted with blood he could hardly make out the rough bandages around the wound. With a sinking heart, he placed his palm over the still chest and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later he opened them again. "I'm sorry," he said, his eyes weary, "he's gone. The wounds were too deep, and too old. I'm amazed he lasted this long."

"What did he tell you?" Kelson asked. He didn't want to press his grief-stricken friend, but he had no choice. "What happened?"

Derry seemed too overcome to speak. After a while Shannon choked back her tears and answered for him. "He was attacked before daybreak, the morning he discovered I'd gone, near Caerlin. They'd come up the river in the night, and overran the town. None of his men survived. He was wounded, and hid…" Her voice failed her and she gulped for breath, "That's why he took so long to get here. They…"

"They? Who?"

"There's only one army that would attack from the water," Derry said grimly. He had folded Aelwyn's arm back to his chest, and now passed his hand over the unseeing eyes. It was a handsome face, in his late fifties, perhaps. "The Northard."

A peculiar sound swept over the crowd, a sigh of surprise, fear, and disbelief. "Ye cannae be serious!" burst out a voice. Ewan, arrived that morning from his lands, shouldered his way to the front. "Yer loss ha' shook loose yer wits."

Both Derry and Shannon turned dull eyes to him, and even the indomitable old warrior was silenced. "Believe what you like," Derry said, turning away. "We'll know soon enough. The last words he said were: more are coming."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_"What have I done wrong," asked Obadiah, "that you are handing your servant over to Ahab to be put to death? –1 Kings 18:9_

More did come. Over the next two days refugees trickled into the city, in carts or on broken horses, carrying their children and wounded and little else. Some still seemed numb with horror; others wailed and would not be comforted. Many asked for the earl of Derry by name; it seemed he was their only countryman of note outside the March. All spoke of a brutal Northard hoard, and of unspeakable cruelty and slaughter.

Soon a small camp sprung up under the western wall of the city, separate from but surrounded by the growing forest of military tents. Sean and his sister buried their anguish in work, finding beds, food, water, and care for the hurt. At first Morgan or Duncan would heal whoever they could, but they were soon exhausted and the king ordered that they only be sent for in desperate cases.

Only Kelson's determination and level-headedness kept the war preparations moving forward. The city seemed to have gone mad with fear. Even the army seemed badly shaken, especially those regiments from the northern counties. The king would have none of it, insisting that the work continue almost as if nothing had happened. He sought out every nobleman, warlord, and captain, and reminded them of their duty. He sanctioned and even imprisoned anyone who shirked at the task. The sooner we are assembled, he told everyone, the sooner we can meet both threats.

Privately he was grateful that everyone was too occupied to ask how that would be done. He had no idea. His war cabinet talked late into the night, but could find no good solution. They didn't have enough men and couldn't get more, even were there time. To march in either direction would be to leave the country virtually defenseless to the other. To divide their force was to walk to sure defeat on two fronts.

Their only hope was to treat with one of the enemies. But what hope was there of that? It was unlikely that the three had attacked at the same time by chance. They were allied, God only knew how or why, and Gwynedd had precious little to bargain with.

They were debating how to even open negotiations when the problem was solved for them. It was announced that an envoy from the Northards was at the city gates, under a flag of parlay.

The emissary strode into the hall as if it were his own palace, and almost made everyone believe it. He was a tall man, blond and full-breaded, dressed in great furs. His helmet was topped with enormous horns, and his broadsword swung from its extravagant belt almost to the floor. He made no bow.

"Hail, Kelson of the Haldanes," he boomed, and his voice echoed around the hall. "I am called Ivar Fleysson. My Lord the Thane of the North sends his greetings."

"We have already received his greetings," Kelson was sitting straight and imperious on his throne, his body rigid with fury, "in the form of our people's cries. Refugees have been pouring into our city, telling of atrocities in the Purple March. What can you possibly say in your lord's defense?"

The giant seemed unruffled. "I could tell you that those refugees would never have darkened your court if the Thane had not let them live."

Kelson snorted. "Out of the kindness of his heart?"

The ice blue eyes did not flicker. "As you have said: to greet you."

Before anyone could answer, the council heard the rasp of a drawn blade from the side passage. Turning, Kelson saw Derry had just entered the hall. He had not changed from the stable clothes he had worn earlier, but the simple white shirt and leather jerkin were now filthy with dirt and blood, as were his face and arms. He looked exhausted. Nevertheless, his sword was out, held to one side with both hands, and he was advancing on the newcomer with deadly purpose in his stride.

"Derry, no!" he knew as he spoke the words that they were useless. "He's here under truce."

"He has nothing to say, sire," Derry said shortly, "nothing true." He lifted his sword in front of his eyes, almost like a salute, swung it wide and brought it crashing down. The emissary sneered and flicked one hand. The sword blazed and froze, suspended five inches from the massive shoulder. For an instant the eyes of the two men met and held. Then the Northard nodded, contemptuously, and Derry flew backwards, smashing against the stone wall.

He collapsed, winded, but was up again in a flash. He started forward, only to be pinioned from behind by Morgan and Dhugal. They had jumped up when he had come in, but had not crossed the floor fast enough to catch him. Now they held their friend by both arms, while their full attention was focused on the enemy before them. Both had shields raised and both instinctively expanded them to cover Derry. He gave a small cry and shook his head. He was shaking. Dhugal withdrew his mind, alarmed, but Morgan remained, pressing Derry's shoulder to calm him.

_"__How did he do that?" _Kelson's thought sounded a little panicked. A physical shield, raised so quickly and expanded so fast…. none of them had seen anything like it before.

The big man took a few steps towards the little group, eyes never leaving Derry's, his expression masked behind the great beard. "_Ach choegddyn a caeth,"_ he rumbled. Then smiled. "_Ach achlod at 'r chwnsel caran._" Derry said nothing,but snarled, struggling futilely to free himself.

"Stop!" Kelson was on his feet, and his eyes blazed with grey fire. His shields were up too, and the Deryni in the room could see power gathered in both fists. "Derry, you are to return to the camp and stay there. Now! Or do my guards have to force your obedience?"

For a few moments Derry stood, breathing hard, too many emotions in his face to read. Then he nodded, and murmured, "Sire." He was released, and after a short bow he stalked out of the room, followed by the Northard's mocking laughter.

"That's right," Fleysson said, still chuckling. "We have no time to waste on servants and fools. Please send away the spectators, Your Majesty. We have serious matters before us."

"Excellent," the Northard rumbled, when most of the room was empty. Kelson had considered carefully, and had in the end decided to keep Morgan, Duncan, Arilan and Ewan with him. Nigel he sent to manage the court. He was glad of his choice when Fleysson knelt and pulled out what looked like small dice. Within five minutes a pale shimmering white dome spread over all of them. No one hindered him, but all except Ewan prepared their defenses. If he planned to fight he was in for a surprise; there were more Deryni in the circle than he suspected.

That did not seem to be the aim, however. When he had finished, he took a chair at the far end of the table and sat. "Well, now, we have some privacy," he said, making himself comfortable, "let's forego the formalities. You're angry, obviously, but I'm in no mood to be scolded by men with their backs to the wall. I've come to offer you a bargain."

Kelson swallowed hard. It was humiliating to admit it, but the man was right. They could not afford not to listen to him. "Do you speak on behalf of the Thane only, or for all of your allies?" he asked carefully.

Fleysson chuckled, a deep, savage sound. "No, no. In fact, our 'allies' might see this as something of a betrayal. They were counting on our action to draw you off. That's why they showed their numbers so early, I would guess. That wasn't the agreement. But if Gwynedd decides to press down on one enemy at a time, you're more likely to go after the smaller force first. That way you might be able to get back in time to save part of your country."

No one said anything. The scenario had been discussed, and it was in effect their last-ditch option. The great pale eyebrows lifted in pretend surprise. "You're not going to ask me what the bargain is? Well, everyone should hold on to some pride, I suppose.

"It's like this. We want the Purple March, and within two months we will have it, whether you fight us or no. If you will pass your word not to resist us, or attack us after, we will stop there. We have no interest in Gwynedd proper. You need not fear an attack from the rear while you deal with the eastlands."

This was more than any of them could have hoped, and each was more than a little ashamed of the relief that washed over them. Nor did any of them really believe it. The king cleared his throat. "As you speak so casually of betraying your allies, why should we trust you to hold faith with your enemies?"

The Northard nodded, meditatively, as if to acknowledge a good point. "We are prepared to leave hostages in Rhemuth. But we demand one in return. Actually, we will have him regardless, or there is no deal. The insolent Marcher dog that you just put in his place: Sean Seamus O'Flynn."

This time the silence was from shock, not from shame. "No," said Morgan, aware that he was speaking out of turn, "there are plenty of noblemen equally valued in the king's service. Choose someone else."

Fleysson barely glanced at him. "It has to be the earl of Derry," he said simply.

"Why?" Kelson regarded him through narrow eyes.

The ice blue eyes that looked back at him were surprised. "For the obvious reasons. I don't understand your objection. Getting him out of the way is as much in your interest as it in ours."

The others exchanged looks. There was no need even to communicate mentally; no one understood what he meant. Fleysson leaned back in genuine astonishment. "You really don't know?" he asked. He paused a moment, and then laughed to himself. "Not such a fool after all. No wonder he tried to kill me." He stood, brusquely. "Well, my lords, that is our offer. It is our only offer. If someone will show to some accommodation, I will leave you to discuss it."


End file.
